


False Pretenses

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Emotional Manipulation, Existential Crisis, Gen, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Misunderstandings, Self Confidence Issues, Starvation, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-18 16:57:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9394586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: It's five days before they come to get him.Prompto's not 100% on that – toward the end, he's spending less time awake, and there aren't any windows to let him track the sun, if there's even a sun anymore. But he keeps count, as best he's able. Ardyn's schedule seems pretty steady, so that helps. He comes twice a day to bring water and break the promise not to hurt him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers. Reader beware!
> 
> The subheading on this fic could well be: In Which I Unpack Every One of Prompto's Issues From His Metaphorical Emotional Baggage.

The memory's an old one.

There's only snatches of it left, a patchwork pieced together from small details, but Prompto thinks he can't have been more than five at the time. He remembers his mom's vase in the corner, stately and elegant, and that thing's been gone for years and years, shattered to pieces and swept up in a trash bag.

The memory itself isn't such a big thing. It's the front door, wide and open, and Prompto running out of it, excitement a swell in his chest.

Hell if he can remember what he's so excited about. Maybe there's a playground in his future. Maybe his mom's told him he can come help do the shopping.

All he knows is that the excitement flickers and dies when a hand closes on his wrist and jerks him back inside. Then comes the voice of his father, sharp and urgent: "Prompto, put your wrist band on this instant."

It's not a gentle reminder. The tone and the grip conspire to bring tears to his eyes.

All the rest's long gone by now – whatever came next. But this tiny snip of recollection stands out from all the others. In a sea of childhood memories, this one marks a turning point.

Looking back, he sees it for what it is: the first time he really understood.

 

* * *

 

The sun's high and bright outside, and Prompto could eat half his weight in fries. They've been out in the scrubby wilderness outside of Longwythe all morning, taking hunts to pick up extra gil – walked probably close to fifteen miles already, and it's barely two in the afternoon.

"I'm gonna starve," he whimpers.

Noct fixes him with that look he does so well, fondness beneath a cool facade. "We're twenty feet from the diner."

"It'll be tragic," Prompto insists. "And tragically preventable. If only breakfast had been more than toast, the funeral-goers will say."

Gladio snorts laughter, and Ignis offers a mild protest. "Oh, come now. We can't always have eggs."

"Don't bring flowers," Prompto tells him. "Bring fries."

Then the diner's steps rise up like the doorway to the heavens, and he takes a deep breath in – grease, and fried salmon – and lets out a happy sigh.

Prompto's so wrapped up in thinking about his lunch order that he almost misses it. Almost doesn't hear. But he's passing just as the man speaks, and he catches every word. "Saw a Magitek trooper the other day," says the diner patron tucked away into one of the booths. "Those things are downright unsettling."

The spring in Prompto's step falters, just a little.

Noct's saying, "So I guess you want an order of fries, huh?"

It takes Prompto a second to process it – to dig up a smile. "What's a trip to the Crow's Nest without fries?"

But suddenly, he's lost his appetite.

 

* * *

 

The thing is, he doesn't feel fake. He just feels like him.

But then, maybe if he's always been fake, that's all he knows how to be.

The mirror shows him carefully-spiked hair. It shows him freckles. He tries on a smile, and it parts his lips obligingly and smooths out the crease between his eyebrows.

He looks perfectly normal. Perfectly human.

His fingers reach for it without thinking – slip beneath the leather band that circles his wrist. He feels it there, a slight rise to the skin in a pattern of bars.

All perfectly normal, except for the one place.

MT. Empty.

He drops the smile and frowns at himself in the mirror. He pinches his cheek and pulls it, to watch the way the skin stretches.

He doesn't feel fake. He doesn't. He just… tries too hard, sometimes. That's all.

And that's the most human thing he knows.

 

* * *

 

The memory's not such an old one.

Prompto's twenty, clad in black, swelling with pride. He's going to be a groomsman at his best friend's wedding. He's been chosen out of all the fancy, competent, talented retainers that Noct has at the palace to go on the journey of a lifetime.

Just him. Just Prompto – and for the first time in a very long time, he feels like that's enough.

"Mom," he calls when he kicks the door closed behind him. "Dad?"

No answer comes. The house is still and quiet. The only light is the light of the setting sun, filtering in through the blinds.

So he waits. He plays King's Knight at the table, and then he sprawls out on the couch and checks the pictures he took at the convenience store earlier. There's Noct, barely in focus, making that weird, flat, half-amused face he always manages to pull off right before Prompto snaps a photo.

Around nine, Prompto heats up some instant noodles and slurps them down alone at the table.

At midnight, he admits to himself his parents aren't coming home tonight.

It shouldn't hurt, still. And it doesn't, not really. He's had years and years to unpack that particular baggage – to look it over and figure out exactly where the fabric will tear if he prods too hard. He knows all the best ways to store it, knows exactly how to cram it deep down into the back of his mind's closet, so that it doesn't come quite so close to the surface anymore.

But he still wonders, sometimes.

He wonders what they got told, the day they took him in. "Oh, here, have some random kid. By the way, they started turning him into one of those creepy walking weapons. Have fun!"

He can't even start to imagine what went into that decision – taking something like that into your home.

And he's grateful to them. Really, he is. He's always had a place to sleep, and food to eat, and they've never raised a hand to him.

It's just, he can't help but wonder, sometimes. If he didn't have those bars on his wrist, would they have been home tonight?

 

* * *

 

He tries not to look at them, lying on the ground, every time the newest batch descends from an Imperial ship to put more bullet holes in them.

They're gears and wires and weaponry, but Prompto knows – underneath, there's flesh, too. On their wrists, there's a pattern of black bars to match his own.

They're from the same place he is – born in whatever test tube Niflheim uses to dream up its made-to-order soldiers.

He's hazy on the details. He's only got bits and pieces, gleaned from his adoptive parents on the one or two occasions he's been brave enough to ask.

Bits and pieces are all he needs.

Looking at the scrap machinery lying there on the hard, dusty earth outside of Hammerhead, he knows. But for the grace of whoever thought to sneak out some squalling brat before the experiments tore him too far apart, that could be him.

One twist of fate, and he's the one lying on the ground, instead.

 

* * *

 

Prompto's never wanted anything as badly as he wants to get off this Six-damned train.

He knows the train has nothing to do with it, but since they've been on board, everything's fallen apart. Noct and Gladio are at each other's throats, and Iggy's wrapped up in wounded silence.

Prompto hates it. He _hates_ it. He knows his friends too well – knows exactly how each of them are hurting, and doesn't know how he can fix it. His hands are tied. His throat's tight, like he might start crying, but that's not going to help anyone do anything.

Then the world outside turns white, and at least he has something to keep his mind off the wreck this journey's turned into.

"What's going on?" Noct asks—and it's the first thing Prompto can remember him saying in hours.

He leaps at the opportunity, words falling out like a shield against everything awful in the world. "It's a real mystery. Like, who comes up with this stuff? I couldn't dream something like this if I tried." Noct's staring at him now, with a sudden abrupt intensity. He doesn't look blank or closed down or even upset, but absolutely pissed off, like he wants to take a swing.

Prompto forces himself on, forces his tone to stay light. "It's a wondrous world."

It's the wrong thing to say. He knows right away, because Noct _does_ take a swing. "The hell are you doing here?"

Prompto lurches back, takes a few hasty steps away. "Easy there, buddy."

He's half got his hands up, palms out – placating. But before he has the time to say another word, Noct's sword springs into his hand, a brilliant flash of magic.

Then he tries to put it straight through Prompto's shoulder.

Prompto's brain goes blank. He scrambles to connect this attack to the Noct of an hour before – sullen and weighted down with Luna's death, but not angry. Not like this.

"Wait," Prompto yelps, even as he turns, instinctively, to run. "Is this for real?"

It feels like it's for real. His feet pound down the length of the train, boots loud on the metal, Noct right behind him. He can't think what this might be about – can't even imagine. And then, suddenly, he can.

His eyes go wide, slip to his wrist to make sure the band is still there. The bars are covered, like they always are, but they burn on him like a brand. Did he give himself away somehow? Did the strap of leather slide just a touch too far, one way or another?

They haven't been eating much, not lately – not since Iggy's eyes. Now that he's looking, he thinks the wrist band's riding a little looser than it needs to be.

Noct catches up with him near the back of the train, and Prompto's voice is shaking as he turns to face him. "Quit playing around, okay?"

But Noct isn't playing around. Prompto's pretty sure of it.

"You think this is funny?" Noct takes another swing with the sword, flash of metal so close Prompto can feel the rush of air. He's seen what that blade can do. He never, ever thought he would be on the receiving end.

"Dude, are you seriously trying to kill me?" It hurts to think it. Hurts worse than anything ever has.

But Noct's next words top that handily. "Why wouldn't I?" All at once, the sword is down – and Noct is in his space, slamming him up against the train's wall with an arm to his throat. "What're you after, following me around this whole time? It's all your fault!"

"What are you talking about?" Prompto lifts an arm – hovers, not quite daring to touch.

And suddenly, he understands. The Empire, dogging their every step. Ships in the air, MTs on the ground, the fiasco with Titan and then again with Leviathan. It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together, if Noct's seen that Six-cursed mark.

He thinks Prompto's been leaking information to Niflheim.

Prompto puts a hand on Noct's forearm – not pushing, just touching.

He would never. He would _never_. It feels like Noct ran him through with the sword, after all. It feels like there's a great gaping hole in him, where everything he loves used to be. "Do you really mean that, Noct?"

"Of course I do! You can't talk your way out of this!"

"You won't even let me," Prompto cuts in, tone pleading. "Noct, please. Can't we talk for a sec?"

He's not sure what he'll say, if Noct gives him the chance to defend himself. The words are jumbled in his mind and on his tongue.

He'll tell his best friend that he knows what he is, but that's not what he _is_. The Empire might have its mark on him, but that's nothing compared to Noct's claim. He draws on Noct's magic, kills in Noct's defense, shares Noct's campfire.

He had nothing until the day Noct decided he was someone worth having.

Prompto's just opening his mouth to say it – to try and explain – when the train jerks to a stop. And just like that, the Empire is here, and they have more important things to worry about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So mostly, this was written because of that damn train scene. Because it occurred to me: after it happens, Prompto and Noctis never even talk about it. That means that, on Prompto's end, he probably thinks it's -genuine-, and Noct says some really terrible things to what he thinks is Ardyn. On Noct's end, I doubt he ever even put two and two together and realized it was Prompto the whole time, because Noct is good at some things, but he is very bad at others, and I feel like this is firmly in the latter category.
> 
> From there, I kind of worked my way backward to try and figure out what Prompto's emotional state was at that point. Canon compliant insofar as I know; interviews have indicated Prompto was adopted by a Lucian couple at one year of age. I tried to keep it as vague as possible, but I won't be surprised if the Prompto DLC debunks some of this when it comes out.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed! I think I'll do one more chapter, in which Ardyn is a dick. Thoughts? :|a


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd, Ardyn is a dick. Surprising nobody.
> 
> Thinking tentatively of a third chapter, set immediately post this scene or post timeskip, so a much-need conversation can happen? Idk yet.

When Prompto wakes up, everything hurts.

His whole side throbs like he went three rounds with a daemon in close quarters with no back-up. His throat's dry as dust, and his lips are cracked, and he's stretched out in a weird position that's making the sharp pain in his left shoulder even sharper. When he shifts his wrists, attempting to ease the strain, he finds that he can't move them.

He just has time to think that they've somehow managed to find the hardest outcropping of rock in all of Lucis to camp on when the words reach his ears.

"Ah. There you are." The voice is soft and accented, more than a little self-satisfied. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't wake up." Something touches his chin, a brush of fingers. "And where's the fun in that?"

Suddenly, Prompto's not sure he wants to open his eyes.

He does it anyway, dread a hard knot in his stomach, and takes in what's waiting: a lined face ringed by vibrant hair, expression deceptively mild. The ever-present hat. Clothes that make their owner stand out like some birdbeast with strange, exotic feathers.

And behind Ardyn, he sees – he's not sure. It's nowhere Prompto's ever been. There's a long hall, all metal, receding into the distance, sterile and lifeless. There are bars blocking the way out, final and foreboding. He's not lying flat on the ground at all, but tipped back at a slight angle, arms above him, wrists strapped to a metal frame.

With a sudden spike of panic, Prompto tugs at his arms. This time, it's not the vague, half-awake attempt from before, but in earnest, with all his strength. Pain crashes through him at the motion, white-hot and nauseating, and he doesn't quite bite back a groan.

"Goodness. Look at you. You're practically in pieces." Ardyn's smile is friendly, almost fond. "They don't exactly make their weapons for durability, do they?"

He feels like he's going to puke.  For a couple of seconds, Prompto just gulps air, and it's a near thing. "What?" he manages, finally, when he's reasonably sure the contents of his stomach will stay put.

"A few pesky bullet holes, a fall from a train, and you're in absolute shambles." Ardyn lifts his hand almost casually and sets it against Prompto's side, the tips of his fingers applying a pressure so light he can barely feel the contact. "Why, I wouldn't be surprised if you'd broken ribs."

The fingers _press_.

Pain comes like a sudden storm. Where before the promise of hurt was nothing but the grumble of thunder in the distance, suddenly there's hail beating down. Prompto screams and thrashes – tries to pull away.

It doesn't help; the pressure doesn't let up. The restraints on his wrists hold firm, and he twists and writhes. He can't seem to get enough air for words, can't seem to make his brain form them even if he could. There are dark spots on the edges of his vision.

"Stop," he manages to gasp. His legs jerk instinctively, and he kicks out – connects with fabric.

The fingers press one last time, more firmly than before, and then finally relent. Ardyn steps to the side with a low chuckle. "Oh, hush. I'm not going to hurt you."

Prompto, dizzy and shaking, doesn't believe that for a single second.

His mind feels weirdly distant, and it's like he's staring down a tunnel, the edges of everything fuzzy and dark. His ribs are still screaming; if he could just relax, shift his weight and take some of the pressure off of them, he thinks it might not be quite so unbearable, but the frame keeps him from changing positions.

This's got to be some mistake – some nightmare.

Maybe if he closes his eyes, when he opens them again he can have a do-over. No weird, creepy corridor to the-Six-know-where. No weird, creepy sadist who murdered his best friend's fiancé.

He'll wake up back in Lucis, half-burrowed in the warm, musty feathers of his chocobo, borderline too hot because he's fallen asleep by the fire. Gladio'll be cleaning his sword with a rag near the tent, and Iggy'll just be finishing up dishes.

And Noct – Noct will be back to normal. There won't be that wan, desperate edge to his face anymore. There won't be new lines by his eyes, or that awful closed-off way he sets his shoulders.

Prompto will wake up and all of this will have been a dream. Just some cosmic joke of a nightmare, probably the worst one in the history of nightmares anywhere.

Prompto closes his eyes.

When he opens them, Ardyn is still standing there, patient and amused. He says, "We're going to have a wager, you and I."

"What…" His throat's dry; Prompto licks at his lips and tries again. "What kinda wager?"

"The kind where we discover whether your prince cares to come and fetch you."

The words cut like one of Iggy's fillet knives: so sharp it's all the way through before you realize exactly how much damage that little blade can do.

Suddenly, the events on the train crash into his memory, fully realized, in excruciating detail. He remembers Noct's face, scarcely two inches from his own, twisted with hate. He remembers the words, shaking with emotion, drenched in conviction: "It's all your fault!"

Ardyn smiles again, soft and secretive. "You understand what makes it a wagering matter, I see. After that little performance, I have to admit: if I wanted his attention, I probably took the wrong retainer."

The man leans in, so close his breath is warm against Prompto's ear.

"So. Shall we set the stakes? If you win, you walk away, free as a daggerquill. If I win…" The man shrugs, languid and expansive. "…well. There won't exactly be anyone to let you out, will there?"

Prompto thinks that now would be a good time for his brain to kick into gear and do something helpful. If Iggy was here, he'd probably have an escape plan already. If Gladio was here, he'd have kicked the bastard's head in by now. But Prompto's just Prompto, and his thoughts still seem swimmy and not quite right. It's all white noise, the way TVs get when all the channels are out and there's nothing on but static.

He swallows, and his throat makes a clicking sound. "So you're just gonna – what? Leave me here?"

Ardyn hums absently, as though in thought. "That would be unsporting of me, wouldn't it? You wouldn't have very long at all."

Very long? Very long for what?

Prompto's thoughts skim out and away, searching for the answer to that. He thinks he sees what it is, but his mind shies from it, hard, like a chocobo rearing up short when it's too scared to keep going.

"How about this? I'll bring you water for three days. After that, we'll leave it to your so-called friends."

Words won't come. They're stuck like one of Noct's fish hooks at the back of a throat that's suddenly dry as sandpaper.

He needs to say something. He needs to wipe that smirk off Ardyn's face, but the twisting dread that's settled into his stomach – that same hook, swallowed down until it's buried in his guts – feels like it's torn the fight right out of him. "They're gonna be beating down the door any minute now," he manages, just a beat too late.

"So confident." Ardyn reaches out, infinitely casual, to pat him on the cheek. "Do you think they're worried about you?"

"Of course they are." Those words come faster, thank the Six – come like his mind doesn't stutter over them, uncertain.

"Well. Time will tell, I suppose."

Ardyn turns for the cell door, steps unhurried. He lifts a hand in farewell.

Prompto watches him go, watches him close the door behind him. The bars latch into place with a ring of finality, and Ardyn turns to leave – pauses and looks back, as though he's forgotten something. "Oh, yes," he says. "One more thing."  

Ardyn spreads one hand, palm up, wide and accommodating. He inclines his head, and his lips curl into a knowing sort of smile. "Welcome home."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at the end. And here I am, scratching my head, wondering how we even got here.

It's five days before they come to get him.

Prompto's not 100% on that – toward the end, he's spending less time awake, and there aren't any windows to let him track the sun, if there's even a sun anymore. But he keeps count, as best he's able. Ardyn's schedule seems pretty steady, so that helps. He comes twice a day to bring water and break the promise not to hurt him.

Prompto spends a lot of time trying not to think.

Whenever Ardyn opens his mouth, he puts some poisonous new thought straight into circulation, and it gets harder, as the time ticks past.

By day two, Prompto's got a whole laundry list of things to avoid: Noct's face, disgust twisting his features; hypothetical debates around a campfire over whether they're better off without him; the campfire itself, and steady hands throwing together some dazzling dish on a pan above it, five-star restaurant fare like it's no big deal.

That last one keeps sneaking in, even though Prompto tries to remind himself those days are long gone, maybe for good, taken with Iggy's eyes.

He tells himself to stop thinking about it. Just stop. Just _don't_. But by day two, Prompto's hungrier than he's ever been in his life, and it's hard to keep his mind from drifting.

It burrows like a knife in his stomach, like someone stuck a blade in there and twisted. It doesn't have to be Iggy's cooking. He'll take some Cup Noodles. He'll take a tin of luncheon meat. He'll take whatever Ardyn scrapes together and puts in front of him, and at this point, he'll be grateful for it.

But when he rouses himself enough to manage a hopeful smile and the suggestion of a meal, Ardyn chuckles like he's told a joke and pats him on the cheek again.

He's not sure when the last water comes. If Ardyn's kept his word, it's three days in.

The man brings two bottles of it and lets him have as much as he wants. Then he gives a silent, mocking bow and takes his leave.

After that, Ardyn still comes twice a day, but he doesn't bring anything besides more bruises.

By day five, Prompto's head throbs in a dull, muted kind of pain, a sympathetic accompaniment to his real injuries. His throat's barren as the landscape outside Hammerhead, and his tongue feels huge and swollen, wrapped in cotton.

He's not gonna make it. He can't have much time left, and there's no real way to know whether Noct's even looking. Maybe he's held out this long for nothing. Maybe he's running on fumes and hope, and that's all he's going to have, right up till the end.

Then the thought springs itself on him, unexpected: Noct getting here a day too late, unlatching the restraints so a corpse can fall to the floor. Noct calling his name, touching the places where Ardyn's hurt him. Noct with one more weight on top of all the others – on top of his father, and Luna, and the uphill path fate's set for him, straight up a mountain over jagged rocks.

So Prompto forces himself to swallow, even though swallowing hurts. He tips his head back, as much as he's able, to coax some of the tension from his neck. He flexes the muscles in his legs, cramped from immobilization, to try and get the blood flowing.

Not yet, he tells himself. You can't check out yet.

So he holds on – one more hour, and one more hour, and one more hour.

Then he hears Noct's voice, like something out of a dream, calling his name.

He can't even lift his head to look, but there are hands on him, so very careful. The restraints fall away, and Prompto goes straight to the floor, unable to hold himself up.

That's okay, though. That's okay.

Noct goes with him, down to his knees – curls a protective arm around Prompto's back.

And Prompto swallows, against a throat that feels like it's lined with sandpaper. He says, "Tell me. Were you worried about me?"

 

* * *

 

The room's harsh and empty – barren like a frozen wasteland – with nothing but the hard, straight lines of the bunks that line the walls.

Prompto doesn't care.

He's sitting on one of those bunks right now, leaning back against the flimsy, under-stuffed pillow, and he's ready to get down on his knees and swear before the Six that it's the best bed he's ever touched. He's been through the better part of two bottles of water already, feels dizzy and a little drunk with the relief of it. He still can't swear he's not going to cry any second now.

But more than any of that – more important than anything ever has been – is that they know. All of them know, not just Noct, but Iggy and Gladio, too.

And here they still are, holed up in a room with one of Niflheim's science projects. Here they are, waiting so he can have some downtime to get himself together again. Here they are, every one of them injured, every one of them wound tighter than a spring after wading through what looks like miles of industrial corridors overrun with daemons.

To find _him_.

In the background, he's dimly aware that Noct's digging around in Gladio's pack. He can't seem to pay too much attention to it, though. His mind's floating aimlessly; it keeps getting caught up in a loop every time he looks at the faces of his friends and reminds himself that they came for him, after all.

They came. And when he told them – brand new information for two, and a confirmation for Noct – they _stayed_.

Noct and Iggy are talking now, a low murmur in the background, but the words drift by like the hum of a commercial low on the car radio. He lets his eyelids slip shut, the strain of the last few days dragging him under.

"Hey," Noct's saying, reaching out to give his shoulder a shake. "Not yet, sleeping beauty."

There's something pressing into his hand – cool, smooth foam – and his fingers curl around it instinctively.

"Mm?" Prompto manages, forcing his eyes open again.

In his hand there's a container of Cup Noodles. It's not hot, but the lid's been peeled up, and the noodles have been soaking for awhile; they're not the crunchy, dehydrated mass that happens before the just-add-water step.

"Now we're talking." Prompto's lips quirk up in a smile, crooked and grateful. "Whoever packed this thing's my new favorite."

Gladio's smirk is a dead giveaway. "You mean I wasn't before? Careful. You're gonna hurt my feelings."

Prompto wants to reply to that, something flippant and normal – really he does – but he flaps a hand at Gladio instead, a hold-on-not-now sort of gesture. The other hand's already busy tearing off the lid with shaking fingers.

He tips the noodle cup straight into his mouth, swallowing down half the broth in one go. Objectively, he knows that room temp instant noodles shouldn't be all that great. _Subjectively_ , these noodles are the best damn thing he's had since the first time he tried Iggy's cooking.

He doesn't realize how much attention everyone else is paying until Ignis clears his throat. "You may wish to pace yourself, if you don't want to be ill."

Over the rim of the Cup Noodles, Prompto becomes aware of the rest of the room again. Noct's frowning at him, face creased with concern. Gladio's looking determinedly at the wall. And Iggy – well, Iggy can't see anything, but he's got his head tipped to the side, the way he does now when he's listening.

Flushing, Prompto swallows another mouthful of broth and lowers the soup cup. "Right. Uh." He licks at his lips a little, chasing the taste – realizes what he's doing, and that Noct's still looking, and flushes even more. "Good call, Ig."

"Here." Noct's fishing through a pack again – comes out with a camping fork. "This might help, too."

Noct presses the fork into his hand, then hesitates there for a second before sitting beside Prompto on the bunk. He's close – and the bed's tiny, sure, but there's enough space for Noct to've given himself a gap. He hasn't, and his side is pressed right up against Prompto's like an anchor, warm and reassuring.

Prompto feels some of the tension leaking out of his body from the point of contact. Until this moment, he didn't realize how afraid he was that Ardyn would be the last person to ever touch him.

Suddenly, his throat's tight again. Suddenly, he's blinking back tears.

"Thanks," he manages, and the word comes out strangled.

Noct doesn't answer. He just gets an arm around Prompto's shoulders and leaves it there.

Prompto finishes his noodles like that – not slow, because he can't quite rein himself in that much – but slower than he started out, at least. And when he's done, his stomach's more happy than queasy, so he guesses he did a good enough job in Ignis' book.

"Kay," he says, as he sets the empty cup aside, fork still leaning against its inner rim. "I got it together now. Ready when you guys are."

Ignis lifts his head, angles it in Prompto's general direction. "It would be unwise to press on before you've rested."

Gladio's still staring at the blank wall on the other side of the room, arms folded over his chest. "Get some sleep," he adds. "We'll keep watch."

It's tempting.

The thought of stretching out flat and closing his eyes for awhile sounds as brilliant as Iggy's carefully kept budgets or clever battle strategies. The thought of Gladio at the door, ready to cut the legs out from under anything that walks through it, makes him feel safer than he has since they left Altissia.

"You've barely got your eyes open," Noct puts in, nudging him with an elbow. "Take a nap, Prom. A couple hours isn't the end of the world."

He wants to say he can keep moving. Really he does.

But in all honesty, he's exhausted. It's like the adrenaline that carried him through this far's run out all at once. He realizes dimly that he's not even really sitting up under his own power anymore; he's leaning on Noct, who's quietly holding most of his weight.

For a minute, no one says anything. And Prompto must be tired, because it takes him a beat to realize they're all waiting for _him_ to say something.

"Yeah," he manages, at last. "Yeah, maybe I'll lie down for a bit."

Over in the corner, Ignis gives an approving nod. Gladio's arms are still folded, but some of the tension in those broad shoulders seems to fade.

And Noct – Noct goes to stand. He's halfway up before Prompto's hand shoots out and catches at his wrist.

It's not like he means to. It's not. Prompto stares at his own fingers, hard, willing them to let go. He's not even sure the air's clear between them, after some of what Noct said on that Six-forsaken train. But a second ticks by, and then a few more, and despite a half-dozen solid reasons to let go, Prompto's humiliated to find he's not quite able to.

Noct fixes him with a look, but it's nothing like the one etched into Prompto's memory, harsh and unforgiving. It's not even one of those blank ones he does so well, damn near unreadable. This expression's like ice in the middle of a thaw, soft and worried. "Hey. I'm just making space. We share a tent, doofus. I know all about how you roll around and take up every square inch."

And he settles himself back down on the cot, on the edge this time, so Prompto has more room.

Prompto closes his eyes against the sudden swell of tears. He'd been starting to think he might get through this without them – but nope, here they are, battering down the door. He nods instead of answering, not trusting his voice, and when he lies down he buries his face in the bunk's thin pillow.

True to his word, Noct stays put, and when Prompto finally convinces his fingers to uncurl from their death grip, there's no hesitation before Noct sets the relinquished hand on his shoulder, instead.

It's nice. Just contact. Just a scrap of warmth, letting him know someone's there even when he closes his eyes.

He sleeps that way, on a filthy slip of a bed in a tiny safe room, wounds still half-healed and the last five days a dark, ugly shape on the horizon.

But he sleeps with his friends to watch over him – and for a few hours, that's enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This... isn't the fic I started out to write. It just kind of got away from me, honestly. I hope you guys enjoyed it, anyway, though. <3
> 
> It ended up not really addressing the train scene explicitly, and of course it ends immediately after Prompto says that all he wants is for things to go back to normal and immediately before Noct gets sucked into the crystal, assuring that "normal" goes neatly to hell for the next ten years.
> 
> So. Yeah. Idek. Possibly I need another fic to address yet more of Prompto's issues. 8|a
> 
> Update: I wrote another fic to address yet more of Prompto's issues.
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/9540920


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